Tag Archives: Fuck

Screw you they’re my favorite shorts and damn it they deserve an update.

This is important for Christ’s sake.

Yeah, yeah the wife feels better and that dude that drank lemonade and maple syrup and cayenne pepper didn’t die and to hell with him! Who the fuck thought that was a good idea in the first place? “Yeah let’s toss some raw lemon spooze, maple syrup, hot pepper and my balls into a glass and call it a ‘purge’, cause ‘purge’ is a hot word right now right?”

I wish I could write fad diets, I’d screw with all of you, one part unicorn, two parts Chinese bear gall bladder, five tears of a five year old … it’s modern day witchcraft and I’d have field day.

Anyway fuck the Master Cleanse dude he’s not dead (but hopefully writing here again), the diet was retarded and back to my shorts.

Also hihi GiGi … you rock. To hell with you she does.

This is about my shorts.

My shorts man, my shorts.

They’re currently my favorite shorts because my real favorite shorts developed a hole in the butt that was so large the wife tossed them out.

She was right to do it though, damn her she normally is. I mean you can’t wear them to the neighbor’s BBQ anymore at all. “Hey great grilled pork Elka, have you seen my ass yet? No? Wait a moment and you will. Hey Hans, did you catch the game?”

So here’s the issue. They have a hole just above the knee on the right leg. But every time I sit down my knee pokes through the hole and if I’m not careful, makes the hole bigger.

The quandary you ask, as in, “why the fuck are you bugging me with this bullshit” is this.

Should I just rip the hem off entirely or let it slowly die?

If I just rip off the hem entirely, I’m free of the fear that next Saturday morning I’ll inadvertently put my foot into the leg and rip it off like Bernard Madoff (which is the funniest last name ever, better than Anthony Weiner even, I mean MAD OFF, made off, I just pooped my favorite shorts laughing … ) but that exposes the shorts to undue stress and I’m not sure they can take it.

I need a shorts doctor stat.

I’m aware there are no shorts doctors.

Damn it.

P.S. Dagmar says, after reading this, I’m just going to throw them out, it’s almost winter.

Words fail me on many Facebook updates so this is best I can do. You cloned a wave and made a heart. Good job?

As some of you that follow me on Facebook already know, I sadly cannot send new friend invites for seven days because I “sent friend invites to people I didn’t know.”

Which I didn’t know I did and am pretty sure I didn’t do but they didn’t know that when they said I did and …

Well the point is that for the next seven days I can’t randomly invite people to become my friends that I don’t know. Which I think is about the same as me saying I’m also not going to watch television shows I don’t like, that I’m not going to read articles I have no interest in and I’m sure as shit not going to listen to any country music.

Who the hell, besides spammers, would do that to begin with? I tired, with no success, to figure out through official Facebook pages why this happened to me. But all I could come up with there was the official ‘don’t send friend requests to people you don’t know.”

Erika Fields thinks it might be a matter of someone I know, that’s forgotten me (WHY HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN ME) reporting a friend request I sent. Which might be, and likely is, the case but who knows.

The closest I could come to an actually explanation was at hoax-slayer. A great site for debunking bullshit internet rumors but the best they had to offer was ‘no one’s ever been banned for it so shut up.’ Which, okay I don’t have any urgent desire to befriend that dude that works in supply but really why did this happen?

This leads me to a ‘had a few beers’ update I started a month ago but never finished. Here are the first few paragraphs.

“So Facebook sucks now right?

I totally saw that on HuffPo and thought, “CRAP I was going to write that!”

I mean I was going to write that without the hard survey data they have and without any of the insight you get from there and I was TOTALLY going to post this update on Facebook cause that that’s where everyone that reads this (most everyone – thanks subscribers) finds the link but otherwise … FACEBOOK totally sucks now, right?

I mean grandma is there, never mind that her last status update was “What time does Applebee’s open for lunch” forcing you to remind her, yet again, that Facebook isn’t Google. Never mind that.

I mean timeline … fuck that crap right? Yeah that stuff sucks. And the advertisements fuck those things. I care not Facebook if there are or are not any hot singles in my area you fucking perverts, wait keep those …

But then of course it dawned on me that yeah I was going to put this on Facebook and even though all the updates in my feed are from someone that

thinks fairies are real or thinks that ‘guns, god and country’ is a sound policy for our nation who the fuck am I to bitch about it?

It’s not Facebook that sucks in those examples. In fact Facebook doesn’t suck at all, and even if it does I need to remember that I’m not the consumer, I’m the product.

I mean I don’t know what your Facebook bill was last month but mine was still zero dollars and zero cents and Facebook has gone to great lengths to convince those naive enough to believe otherwise that they will never charge for access to Facebook.

See besides that photo your Aunt Pam posted of you naked it the tub at two and the post by ‘that guy that works across the street’ about how much he, hates, hates, hates timeline (I don’t I think it’s kind of cool haha) notice the ads?

Yeah, there are a lot of them.

We, the users, are being sold on Facebook. We’re the bread the baker bakes, the meat the butcher sells and the beer the brewer brews.

Which brings us back to beer and that’s the way God intended.

I was going to wait until ‘hadafewbeers.com’ earned me 1 million internet dollars before I started a Facebook ‘like’ page but this being my second warning for something I have no knowledge of doing I think it’s best to do it soon.

The page is Like it or I’ll send you a fucking friend request … as soon as my seven days are up.

You can put anything you want into the Chocolate Fountain ... food, drinking cups, fingers ... not your wiener though; I found that out the hard way.

Living in Europe for the past ten years might, just might skew your perspective on things. Although I have had a few chances to come back, mainly for work, nothing beats visiting family – for showcasing how bat-shit whacky this place really is. Coming back to the U.S. for work means, hotels, meetings and hotel bars, boring. Coming to spend a week near Fells Point in Baltimore means distilled crazy, and I love it. Next week we head to upstate New York where I hope there’s nothing more to make fun of than cows and well cooked food – Baltimore it ain’t.

Holy shit the news isn’t lying. Has 33 percent of America spent the last ten years in a non-stop donut eating contest? Fat jokes are easy to make, easier when you’re skinny sure, but easy none the less. I can’t say I was shocked by the overall weight here but I was shocked when visiting, all you can shove down your food-hole franchise, the “Golden Corral.” Having made the rookie mistake of ceding that night’s dinner choice to a 17-year-old (‘Let’s go to the Corral, they have a chocolate fountain’ – should have been a clue that bad decisions were afoot) we set our GPS to deep-fried mistakes and off we went.

I want to call the Golden Corral a war-zone but that is very disrespectful to war-torn cities across the world. Gluttonous, filthy and all around ‘gross’ seem more appropriate descriptions but they lack the ‘holy fuck are you eating MORE’ eloquence I was hoping to convey.

Fine, I’m being uptight prick, but dear lord the this plastic dinnerware, heaping plates of half eaten food and the micro layer of something best described as ‘sticky’ that covers every surface (including I think the food) made the meal interesting. One wishes they had a sociologist friend alongside that could help define or at least attempt to explain the ravenous herds of people vying for a plates full of pan fried shrimp covered in turkey gravy (I’m only sort of kidding). Sadly, I think I can explain it without the use of a doctorate. American’s like to eat, they like to eat NOW and every dish can be made better by deep frying.

I confess I’m very used to being the drunkest person in situations where no one is drunk at all. I think nothing of having a beer(s) at the airport bar at 9 a.m. I have no issue navigating a check out line in Germany with a head full of beer. Eyes forward, greet the check-out lady, hand her the cash, bag the purchase and get out. It’s really quite simple.

Here in Baltimore, I’m an amateur. At 1 p.m. on a Tuesday while the girls shopped for groceries I ventured across the street to pick up a six pack of beer. Beer, wine and liquor can only be purchased in liquor stores here for some reason. I was going to spend some time making fun of America’s draconian laws regarding liquor until …

While the young lady behind the counter and I had a pleasant discussion about the location of Heineken I was accosted by what I’m sure is the drunkest person in the world. First, after stumbling into the store in what I was sure was the start of some brilliant street comedy skit, she corrected my greeting the clerk, informing me (with breath that would kill a lesser man) that she was not to be referred to as “Ma’am” but as “Mom”. The 50-something African American Mom could barely contained her look of disgust and I can’t blame her. The drunken 30-something Caucasian lady would have been (correctly) drown at birth if “Mom” had her way. Then the drunken lady notices I’m purchasing cigarettes and loudly, but in the drunk loudly-slurish way, asks that I provide her with a cigarette. This, and it’s obviously testament to my lack of dealing with drunk skills, seems like a way to sever the conversation so that the clerk and I can continue our discussion of the weather. Cigarette in hand my drunken entertainer then informs Mom that I’m also going to buy her a 40 ounce … I’m not making this up, a 40 ounce.

I loved every fucking second.

Dear America. For a country that seemingly has the automobile as a centerpiece of its culture you fuckers can’t drive. No one, that includes you reading this right now, bothers to signal a lane change. Everyone passes on the right and that’s because there’s always some shithead in the passing lane doing exactly the speed limit. Any attempts to merge are seen as a direct threat to the other driver’s manhood, patriotism or sexual orientation. In fact most every maneuver that doesn’t include driving forward at a constant speed is met with a string of profanity that has taught me several new swearing lessons. For instance I did not know I was a “rat-shit bastard fuck stain”.

You Baltimore, you’re the guy; right there you’re the guy.

Point is, for a nation that literally forces you to drive to the bathroom, the ‘rule of the road’ seems to be, ‘fuck you, go around.’ Look Germans are funny for a lot of reasons, driving isn’t one of them. There are, to be sure, asshole German drivers. I cannot count the times I’ve been passing a truck on the autobahn only to discover mister, my penis is too small

Not a single f-bomb was thrown during this drive

so I bought a Porsche, ramming the hood of his car up my ass while vigorously flashing his light in an attempt to let me know that he would like to continue driving at a safe and reasonable 310 Kph and I should kindly complete my lane change. But it really is the exception and not the rule. When German’s merge lanes they use the zipper effect meaning that if you’re in the lane being merged into you let a car merge in front of you and the driver behind you does the same. Generally it works out for all parties involved.

Not here. In a quick and simple trip to the mall I watched at least 5 different drivers fly into spittle flying, fist shaking rages of self-righteousness all due to some dickhead that had the balls to (without signaling) pull in front of them. You need to watch it fatty; you’re ticker’s already working overtime keeping the blood pumping around all that girth.

Okay when the hell did fucking pajamas become acceptable attire anywhere outside the home? Even the endangered slim and attractive American female seems to have embraced this crime against the eyes. Pajama bottoms, baggy sweatshirt and flip-flops? Sign me up for the ballet, I’m ready to go! At the airport rental car counter there was one young lady, who was either pregnant or a typical American, whose choice of apparel that evening seemed to say, yes I am fat and here’s a direct look at my fat. Yes sir, I’m keenly aware that my shirt does not only fail to cover my ample stomach but that it literally screams look at my fried-food educed blubber.

I used to love, literally I would become giddy and start to giggle, to make fun of the American Forces Network. I’ve devised hours and hours of ways I could make fun of their command information commercials espousing those of us overseas to be good neighbors, pick up after our dogs and to not rape women.

No more.

Here’s my apology AFN: I’m truly sorry from the bottom of my heart American Forces Network. You provide quality programming to those of us living overseas at little or no cost and your commercials are generally (if not comically) correct, raping women is bad, turn down your goddamn stereo and pick up your dog’s poop.

I mean it. My step daughter has something called ‘on-demand’. Which, with a simple push of a button, shows you every television show ever made, anywhere in the world, in any language and at any time.

No, no honey go on without me, I've got to catchup on every damn show ever...

Look, I know I can come off as a prick and saying things like “I don’t watch TV” makes it worse but fuck, I think I understand why America is fat (aside from deep-fried everything). America is fat because holy fuck there’s ANOTHER show I want to watch and it’s on right fucking now. Such wonderful television adventures as ‘Mob Wives’ ( what’s wrong with that woman’s mouth) to every single ‘I want to be famous show’ is available whenever you want. No waiting until next week, no waiting until its 7 p.m. It’s on right fucking now so grab that extra large bag (available at Walmart) of chocolate flavored Doritos and have a seat.

Sure making fun of one’s country is fun but man did I forget some of the good stuff. America is convenient. Anything you want, at anytime you want it is available with minimal effort. I was informed at a clothing store that if they didn’t have the size of jeans I needed they would happily deliver them to my house. They would literally call the other stores until they found the size jeans I needed and then DELIVER them to my house while I ate Doritos watching Tosh.o reruns using ‘On Demand’. If you decide you need a chainsaw, lubricant and a blow up doll at 3 a.m. on a Tuesday (and who hasn’t) you can get it here, no questions asked with minimal effort.

While dinner at a restaurant in Italy can, and typically does, take four or more hours German is not much different. Waiter service isn’t bad it just not speedy. Here my beer is barely drained before the server is sloshing down another frothy cold one and asking what else I might desire. Service is beyond good, the scientists studying the hadron collider should look to American restaurant staff member if they’d like a better understanding of how objects react at or near the speed of light.